


The John Watson Fan Club

by bookjunkiecat



Series: The Adventures of John's Dong [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: At the end of the day John always goes home to Sherlock, F/M, H is for Hung, John and his third leg, John does everyone, John might break, Just ridiculous names for sex organs, Lestrade is tired of them doing it everywhere, M/M, Ride the Matterhorn, Sherlock has an insatiable libido, Sherlock is clueless, The Adventures of John Watson's Dong, There's a reason he needed a cane, There's fan clubs and then there's fan clubs, a dash of angst, say my name, silly smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-18 12:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10617042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: John Watson's penis takes on all of London. Sherlock has no idea John is packing serious heat. Basically John's dick takes him on adventures.





	1. The John Watson Fan Club

**Author's Note:**

> This is a frankly ridiculous and mildly smutty bit of fluff, with a dash of angst and some goofiness. Please do not take it seriously. John certainly doesn't.

          Puberty was hell.

          Sure, it _sounds_ great, to have a ten inch cock. But forget hiding sudden erections. John started wearing floppy jumpers and carrying around a large rucksack.

          It had a mind of its own, that thing. Girls, boys, women, men, breasts, bums, ankles, necks, perfume, even motorbikes could get it hard. John despaired of ever getting it to behave. His teenage years were mostly spent in his room, hiding it (and fondling it and admiring it too, let’s be honest). By the time he was leaving school, John had decided to go into medicine, to study it, see if there was some way he could tame the wild beast.

          And then he met Donna and discovered sex (with another person). Donna couldn’t handle all ten inches, but after Donna was Rodney, and Rodney was more than able. After embarking on an exploratory spree, John nearly flunked out of university, until he managed to get his libido under control. In the end he managed to learn a little self-mastery, and he finished his courses and delved into medicine (by then he had abandoned his old dreams of doing something about his penis and decided to embrace this gift the gods gave him).

          Surgery was interesting, but medicine itself was pretty boring. John had slept with all the nurses, several fellow junior doctors and a good deal of the catering staff. The hospital felt small, dull, used.

          And then he saw an advert for the Army. They say that sailors have a girl in every port, but John got seasick in anything larger than a rowboat, so he chose the Army instead. Plenty of tail to be had abroad. Only, of course, there were lots of rules, and sometimes no women around for miles; and of course officers weren’t allowed to mix with foot soldiers. But John managed to get through a good part of his career by seducing his fellow officers.

          Usually all it took was unzipping his trousers.

          His career in the Army was a good one, but the older he got the more jaded he became about following orders. There wasn’t much excitement or glamour to being a soldier, and there’s only so much sand, blood and death you can see before you start to go a little potty. A bad injury put him out of commission and saw him back in England, broke, depressed and a wreck of his former self.

          John was depressed. Even John’s cock was depressed. Neither of them wanted to do anything but lie there. Then he met Sherlock Holmes and suddenly he was seeing everything in Technicolor again.

          The adrenaline flowing through his veins brought him back to life and John began to take an interest in things again.

          First was Sarah. That was a bit awkward, as they worked together—technically she was his boss—and of course Sherlock didn’t like her. But then, Sherlock didn’t really like anyone. But after the disastrous first date and the kidnapping and near death they tried again. Dinner and a movie—boring but necessary—and then back to her place.

         

 

******

 

          “No way,” Sarah said flatly, holding out her hands as if John’s penis was about to assault her. “John, don’t be ridiculous, I can’t take all of that.”

          “Just the tip,” he begged. It had been almost a year and his balls were going to explode if he didn’t get a leg over soon. “Then if you relax, maybe more.”

          “Bloody hell, more?” Sarah stared at him, fascinated. “Can anyone really take more?”

          “It’s been known to happen,” John said, daring to step closer. “Just touch it, you’ll see, it isn’t so scary.”

          “Well…it does look like any other penis…just massively huge.” Sarah flushed, put out her hand, “Oooh, like a pepper mill!”

          In the end she took just the tip. But John wasn’t going to complain.

 

******

 

          “I see you and Sarah ‘did it’ at last,” Sherlock sneered, forming air quotes around the words. He was sprawled in his chair, violin lying across his chest.

          “How can you tell that?” John demanded, “I’ve only just come in the room. Oh wait, probably something about my jacket tipped you off. Or was it the buttons on my shirt?”

          “Actually it was the condom wrapper stuck to your trouser leg. Although I suppose you could have picked that up on the Tube, public transport being what it is, however there’s also your unzipped fly.”

          John changed his trousers and made them both tea. Somehow they ended up on top of the building, dropping watermelons. Sherlock said it was for science but John suspected he was enjoying himself.

 

******

 

          “I don’t know,” John heard his date mutter to Bill, “he’s a bit old for me. Why did you set me up with him?”

          “Listen, mate, just take my word for it, you’ll love him.”

          John rolled his eyes. Why had he let Bill set him up on a blind date with this raw recruit? Young men, he had found, were invariably useless in bed; too impatient, selfish and generally lack-witted to bring much skill or technique to the bedroom. He had to admit, this one was pretty cute, though, in a queeny way.

          They were on the dance floor now, trying. There wasn’t much enthusiasm from either of them. A fast song came on, something throbbing and techno, and his date turned around and ground his arse against John’s crotch. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, John grabbed his hips and let him rock against his pelvis. Suddenly his date whipped around and stared at him in shock, his mouth a round O. John wanted to plumb that O with his enormous wang.

          Taking the younger man by the hand, John led him to a dark corner, pressed him up against the wall and kissed him senseless. He felt a hand questing for his groin and accommodatingly parted his legs. “Oh my God!”

          “Not quite,” John smirked.

          Fifteen minutes later they were in the alley behind the club, and ten minutes after that John was in his date. “Oooh, yeah, oh, oh, that’s—oh, God, big boy, yeah.”

          Shut up, John wanted to say, but he was polite and kept his mouth shut, pounding away at that young ass.

          “Ohhhh, daddy, yeah, give it to me!”

          “Oh now why did you have to go and do that?” John sagged in defeat, his erection softening. “That’s not sexy. I actually _am_ old enough to be your father.”

          “I’m sorry, I was just in the moment…don’t stop!” He waggled his ass invitingly, but John was already zipping up.

          “Sorry, party’s over.”

 

******

 

          “No luck tonight either?”

          John paused on the bottom stair; he had been intent on reaching his room. What a hell of a depressing night this had turned into. “Not exactly.”

          “Perhaps it’s your cologne, John,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t notice it before you left, but it’s quite strong now—I can smell it from across the room.”

          It’s not my cologne, John thought about telling him, but he didn’t feel like talking about it. “I’m going to shower.”

          “Once you’ve washed that offensive smell off, come join me, I have a new case I want to discuss with you.”

          “With me?” John flushed with pleasure. It was rare that Sherlock needed someone to talk to—normally he just talked at things.

          “Yes, Mrs. Hudson has hidden my skull.”

          John rolled his eyes, “I’ll be right down.

          “Make some tea while you’re up!”

 

******

 

          “Say my name.”

          “John,” Molly panted, trying to wriggle away like a fish on a spit. “Oh! John…”

          “Stay still,” he commanded, “You’re only going to hurt yourself.”

          “It’s too big,” she whined softly, her big brown eyes even bigger than ever. Molly bit her lip and John sank into her another inch. “Ohhhhh, John!” Her eyelids fluttered and she pulsed around him.

          “Maybe next time you see me you’ll remember my name,” he grunted, and pressed into her still further. She was tiny, tight, but so far he was halfway in and hoping for more.

          “I’ll never forget it after this,” Molly promised, and whimpered when he pulled back a little. “I’m really sorry, I’m not normally so ruuuuuude…” her voice rose a note and then trailed off when John pumped a few times.

          “You like that, don’t you?” John felt sweat forming around his hairline, rolling down his spine. For someone so small, Molly was surprisingly able to accommodate his massive man-meat.

          “I do, I really, really—“ Molly’s voice dropped an octave, “—do. Oh, John, John!”

          “I’m in,” he grunted, and they smiled at one another. “It only took twenty minutes, Molly. You’re a trouper.”

          “I can feel you nudging up against my lungs,” Molly gasped, sounding quite breathless. “You’re sooooooo big, John. Oh, John, that feels wonderful.”

          “Just wait,” John promised, and he began to move. Soon he was slipping and sliding inside her snug body and in a few minutes an overwhelmed Molly Hooper was yelling his name as she climaxed. _I bet she’ll remember it now_ , John thought with grim satisfaction.

 

******

 

          “—which of course is completely understandable if one is able to see the magnitude of the bigger picture. Don’t you agree, John?”

          John hurried to Sherlock’s side and hummed his agreement. Sherlock looked up from his microscope and frowned, “Why are you all sweaty?”

          “I was, um, helping Molly move some furniture.”

          “In the lab?” Sherlock regarded him as if he were a moron.

          “Erm…”

          “In my office,” Molly piped up, stepping into the lab looking like a fucked fairy. Just one look at her and the jig was up. Sherlock would know what they had been up to and he would be sooooooo pissed that John and Molly had failed to remain and pay his brilliance due deference because they were shagging. “I wanted to try Feng Shui in my office, see if it helped my productivity.” She laughed nervously.

          “Molly don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped, “Feng Shui is hokum. John, come, I know who killed the cook! Once we’ve proven my brilliance to Scotland Yard I’ll take you out for chips.”

 

******

 

          John thought he might be going to die. But then he lived. Sherlock actually dropped to his knees in front of him, struggling to remove the bomb vest strapped to him and John made a joke. He wanted to unzip, grab Sherlock by his curls and give him a good what for. But Sherlock just chuckled cluelessly and they left the swimming pool.

 

******

 

          I bet she could handle my cannoli, John thought, staring in blank astonishment at Irene Adler. Christ, what a gorgeous figure! John thought about her in a leather corset, brandishing a whip and shuddered.

          But there wasn’t time for that. Sherlock was having some sort of mental breakdown and stuttering and dribbling all over himself. And then there were Americans waving guns about, and an explosion and a melee and Sherlock was drugged and passed out and The Woman had escaped.

          Several months passed and Sherlock brooded and scowled and obsessed, and John went on a series of dull dates with insipid women and boring men and did a lot of solitary wanking. He met Jeannette and put in the time and thought he might finally be going to get one in when the Christmas party happened and suddenly Sherlock snapped and insulted everyone left and right and Jeannette stormed off and John considered confronting Sherlock, or strangling Sherlock, or maybe just shagging Sherlock. But in the end he went downstairs and bitched and moaned to Mrs. Hudson.

          “It’s hardly surprising, John,” she pointed out, pouring a tot of whiskey in his tea, “That’s just how Sherlock is. Personally, I think he needs a right plowing, to put him in a sweet frame of mind. But then, he doesn’t go in for that sort of thing.”

          “Some of us do,” John said gloomily, staring into the fire. “Tonight was the night, with Sarah, I would have finally erm…”

          “Gotten the horse in the barn?” Mrs. Hudson supplied helpfully, “Docked the boat? Run the flag up the pole?”

          John laughed, “I get the metaphor, ta.” He kicked off his shoes and rubbed his toes in the plush bearskin rug in front of the fire. Bloody hell there was a lot of whiskey in that tea.

          “I thought her name was Jeannette?” Mrs. H topped up his drink. “Or was that the one before?”

          “Mmm, yes, Jeannette,” John agreed absently. It was getting warm in here, he might need to take off his jumper.

          “You certainly are quite the Romeo, John.” Mrs. H sipped her tea reflectively, “I used to date as many men as you do women.”

          “I bet you did,” John said, stripping off his jumper and tossing it over his shoulder.

          “It’s been some time since I had a man taking his clothes off in my parlour,” Martha tittered, and held out the whiskey decanter, “Drink?”

          John held out his empty teacup and she filled it. He drank noisily and smiled at her, “You have great legs, Martha.”

          “Oh John, dear, how you do go on!” She stretched her legs out in front of her, “Although I must say, I agree with you.” She pulled up her skirt and turned her leg about, so he could admire the firelight gleaming on her stockings. “I was a dancer for years, it’s really helped me keep my figure.”

          “Mmmhmm,” John hummed, and stood up, a trifle unsteadily. He began unzipping his cords, and Martha raised an eyebrow. “I thought I’d show you my legs, since you showed me yours,” he told her and dropped his trousers.

          “Bless my soul that’s a mighty big knob!”

          “This old thing?” John looked down modestly, blushed. “I’ve had it for years.”

          “You must be very proud of it,” she murmured, drawing closer for a good look.

          “I take it out and polish it every night,” John said, and cracked up.

          He laughed so hard his legs grew weak, and when she took him by his member and guided him to the rug in front of the fire, he went. And when she took off her dress he stood to attention and saluted (so to speak). And when she climbed on top of him and took every inch in one fail swoop, John swooned in ecstasy.

 

******

 

          “What was that noise earlier?” Sherlock growled many hours later when John had limped upstairs. His prick was absolutely wrung out and he thought he might have fucked so vigorously that he’d aggravated his hip injury. “It sounded like someone tickling a swan.”

          “M—erm, Mrs. Hudson was, ah, telling me a joke.”

          “It must have been funny,” Sherlock peered at him in distraction, not seeming to care very much. John had a vague memory of Mycroft calling earlier, warning him it might be a danger night. John pulled himself together. “I heard a lot of laughter—if you could call it laughter.”

          “It was a pretty funny joke.” John shook his head, goddamned whiskey. “I’m going to make some tea, you want some?”

          Sherlock just grunted, but when John brought him a cup, he took it, and he even drank some of it. It was a long night. John missed out on sleep but decided it was worth it since Sherlock made it to dawn without disappearing, shooting off a gun or doing drugs. When the sun came up they took a walk and ended up stumbling on a gun smuggling operation when they stopped for eggs.

 

******

 

         

          John tried to pull Mycroft’s scary PA, Anthea or whatever the hell her name was. But she was impervious to his charms and he was too leery of her to whip it out. Knowing her she might snatch it off and throw it out the window.

 

******

 

          Then there was the time he went out with Greg to celebrate his divorce decree. Somehow they ended up in a hotel room that smelled of Greg’s discarded socks and a whiff of despair. After killing a six pack a piece they passed out—Greg deciding drunkenly that it “wasn’t gay” to share a bed with John as long as they slept head to foot—Greg had woken up to see John pitching a tent.

          “Shit,” he groaned, sitting up on one elbow and clutching his head, “Am I still drunk or is that your dick?”

          “’s’all me,” John said, lying still with his eyes closed.

          A breeze wafted around him when Greg lifted the covers. There was a shocked silence and then he felt a tentative finger brush against him. “Bleedin’ hell that thing is huge,” Greg breathed in amazement. “No wonder you used to walk with a cane. You must have a chronic back ache.”

          “It can be cumbersome,” John admitted, shifting a little so that Greg’s fingers could more easily reach him. “Especially in the morning. Sometimes I get tired of wanking myself.” He cracked open a bleary eye, looked at Greg, “It’s a two man job, really.”

          They were both late to work.

 

******

 

          “Yet another sad, depressing night of drinking with Lestrade?” Sherlock stood at the end of John’s bed and looked as disapproving as an old nanny. “You treated patients in this state?”

          John, lying face down on the bed, groaned. He’d managed to make it through his shift at the clinic, but by the time he reached the flat he was done in. All he wanted was a paracetamol, a cup of tea and to sleep for at least eighteen hours. “Leave me alone, I feel like utter crap.”

          “Stop killing what little brain cells you have with copious amounts of drink,” Sherlock said snippily, and turned to go.

          John put out a pathetic hand, “Oi, bring me a pain pill and something to drink, will ya?”

          “You’ve done this to yourself; don’t expect me to wait on you hand and foot.”

          “Wanker.”

          “What was that?”

          “…nothing.”

          Fifteen minutes later Sherlock put a cup of tea on his bedside table.

 

******

 

          John hadn’t been on a date in almost a year. First it was shock and depression, and he just couldn’t bear the idea of trying to behave normally. Then he started looking for a way to feel something good again. After a few months of meaningless dates and faceless shags, he met Mary.

          Mary made him laugh. Mary took one look at his trouser snake and fell on the floor laughing. She turned red. She howled. Tears ran down her face.

          When she finally sobered up she went down on John.

          John started to feel things again. The deep throat was just the first. The day Mary took him all the way in he decided to ask her to marry him.

 

******

 

          _I’m gonna kill him_ , John thought grimly, _I’m going to actually fucking kill him. He’ll be really, properly dead, the idiot_.

          He tried (but not very hard, because he was a trained soldier after all, and could have actually succeeded). Twice. Finally he stormed off, unable to look at Sherlock any more.

          _Two years_ , he fumed, waiting on Mary to join him at the taxi. _Two bloody years and he lets me, his best friend, believe he’s dead_. Now Sherlock was back, as cocky and gorgeous as ever, and acting as if he hadn’t betrayed John. Finally Mary sauntered to his side, and let him help her in the taxi.

          “I like him,” she said with a smile.

          _So do I_ , John thought forlornly.

 

******

 

          Marriage was hell on a sex life. Especially when your wife has morning sickness all day long, and you’re so bored you could murder the next person who wishes you good morning, and your best friend has disappeared.

          Then there’s the terror of almost losing Sherlock for real when he gets shot. Oh, and the little matter of your fucking wife turning out to be a fucking assassin who it just so happens tried to kill your best friend.

          On Sherlock’s advice, John didn’t leave Mary, but he also refused to talk to her. He can’t even look at her, he’s so mad. Only then he realizes that she’s still carrying his child and Sherlock really doesn’t blame her, and it’s all a big, cocked up mess of cosmic proportions, and eventually John decides that she’s his wife and as fucked up as they will no doubt make her, she’s also the mother of his child.

          So he forgives her and they move on for approximately 2.5 seconds until the next disaster and then at the last minute Sherlock is back, and then Mary gives birth and it’s all screaming babies and dirty nappies and late hours and oops I almost cheated on you with that redhead from the bus and suddenly Mary’s in the wind and they’re after her.

          Mary found, Mary back, Mary dead.

          Lots of long sleepless nights and long nightmare days.

          Sherlock manipulates him _again_ and then he’s punching him and kicking him and then there’s silence and then surprise it was all for show!

          They talk and they laugh and cry and hug and John tells himself that someday things will be normal again.

          And then his therapist shoots him.

 

******

 

          “Well, Sherlock, it’s been a year,” John said, dropping into his chair. Rosie was at Molly’s for the night, Mrs. Hudson was downstairs in her flat, and it was almost like old times. “You didn’t call Irene last year on your birthday either. Is this going to be the year?”

          “What is your obsession with The Woman?” Sherlock asked in amusement, looking up from his laptop. “Perhaps _you_ should call her.”

          “She’s not my type,” John told him, “Besides, it’s you she likes.”

          “She’s not my type either,” Sherlock responded absently.

          “No? I didn’t know you had a type.”

          “Not women.”

          “Oh?” John can’t think of anything more intelligent to say. Frankly he’s a bit amazed. Sherlock always acted as if sex was something that happened to other people.

          “John, did you know there’s a fan club dedicated to your penis?”

          “ _What_?!”

          Sherlock glanced up from his laptop, “Yes, there are quite a few members. JOHN WATSON’S COCK.”

          John blushed. Who in the hell had the nerve to put that on the internet where anyone could find it?

          “’I deep throated John Watson,’” Sherlock read, “’No wonder they call him Three-Continents, it takes two just to support his massive log.’” A rather alarmed look appeared on his face.

          John covered his face with his hands, “Stop!”

          “’There’s a reason he needed a cane.’”

          “Sherlock,” he growled.

          “’He can screw from across the room.’”

          “Stop. Now.”

          “’I’d bring my twat out of retirement for his todger.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I could go on, but I think you see the general drift.”

          “I got it from the first,” John glared at him.

          “I suspected you utilized more than your dubious charm to bed women, but I hadn’t realized it was all down to your, erm, magnificent manhood.” Sherlock set aside his laptop, gazed at John. John squirmed when those analyzing eyes dropped to his trousers. “I gather from the website that you employ your weapon of mass destruction far and wide, with both male and female. I thought you weren’t gay?” He inquired politely.

          “I’m not,” John huffed, “My prick is.”

          “I see. Or rather, I don’t. Please show me.”

          “What?”

          “Your penis, John, show me this marvel of human anatomy.” Sherlock sounded like he was asking John to hand him his phone.

          “I won’t.”

          “Why not? It sounds as if all of London has been allowed to handle your monstrous member.”

          John peered at him; his friend looked like he might possibly be blushing. “Why are you speaking alliteratively?”

          “Don’t change the subject, John.”

          “Are you embarrassed?” John shook his head, “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Sherlock.”

          “As always, you miss the point. I was attempting to be playful.”

          “Playful.”

          “Yes.”

          “You.”

          “Yes.”

          “You, Sherlock Holmes, were attempting to be playful regarding my penis?”

          “Living with me has really sharpened your powers of deduction,” Sherlock snapped, sounding more like his normal self.

          John grinned at him, “That’s more like it. I’m not used to you acting like a shy schoolgirl. So…you want to see my purple turnip, eh?”

          “Don’t be vulgar, John. This is purely from a scientific standpoint. Gathering…data.”

          “Oh, well, if it’s for science.” John dropped his trousers and hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his pants, raised an eyebrow, “You going to observe from way over there?”

          “I suppose I could come closer.”

          John shucked off his pants, and for good measure, his shirt. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled at Sherlock. “Take a look.”

          “I am.” Sherlock leaned over, peered at him. It should have been off-putting but John could feel himself stirring. “Oh, it moved.”

          “Well, you’re looking at me.”

          “And you like that?” Sherlock peered at him, looked back at his crotch. “Oh. I can see you do. Oh. Oh, my. You really are quite impressive.”

          “You haven’t seen anything yet.” John sat in his chair, legs sprawling and smiled at his friend, “Touch me.”

          Sherlock looked startled, “You wouldn’t mind?”

          “Not at all,” John said a bit breathlessly. It was finally happening.

          “Ahem, well, I’ll just—oh that is remarkable, I’ve never seen such a leap in size. I feel like I’m holding a live snake, or a—I don’t know really, some wild thing.”

          John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath on his skin, and he was aware of how close the other man was. “I’m feeling pretty wild.”

          Sherlock went still, and then slowly looked up at John, eyes wide. “Are you…John are you…attracted? To me?”

          “You always miss the one thing,” John said, and kissed him.

 

******

 

          “Come back to bed,” John moaned, and pulled Sherlock to him, holding tight as the skinny bastard tried to wiggle away. “Where are you going?”

          “I have to do something. I’ll be quick,” Sherlock promised, slithering out of bed and dashing downstairs. He grabbed his laptop and logged in, returning to the JOHN WATSON’S COCK fan page. Typing rapidly—he was in a hurry to get back to John, he left a comment.

          I KNOW WHAT THE H STANDS FOR.


	2. The Story of Sherlock's Sexual Odyssey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's sexual appetite gives John's manly parts a work out. No where in London is safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked for more and you have received. I hope this is okay; I'm afraid the first installment may have been a one-off work of genius. However, I am contemplating a further chapter with Molly and Greg.

          Sherlock Holmes was a horn dog.

          Every time John turned around, there he was. Bend over to pull the sack of rubbish out of the bin and Sherlock was sliding up behind him, all hands. The man was like an octopus. A big, horny octopus with cold hands and an insatiable appetite.

          In the shower? There he was, jerking open the curtain and giving John a heart attack (clearly the man had never seen and been scarred by _Psycho_ ). Eventually John got over the shock and they banged until the water ran cold and gave them another scare.

          Leaving a crime scene, in the back of a cab, Sherlock, flush with the triumph of solving the case and casting Scotland Yard as imbeciles once more, unzipped John’s trousers and had him half hard before he knew what was going on. “Eyes on the road!” John had barked, and the driver made record time to their flat. That was one cabbie that was never going to pick them up again.

          While on the phone with his boss at the clinic (Sherlock on his knees, hands wrapped around John’s erection, following John around the room until he had him backed up in the corner and couldn’t escape—John had panted his way through a very awkward conversation then thrown the phone away from him and shagged Sherlock silly).

          Trying to cook dinner and there Sherlock was.

          Come back from posting letters, sex.

          Working on his blog? Sherlock slithered between John’s laptop and his lap and sucked him off, computer bouncing on his head. John had to go back and delete the asdfhal;dhg;gnahldth that had accidentally gotten posted.

          They went to Bart’s to observe the results of the PM Molly had done on their latest victim and even there John wasn’t safe. Molly didn’t ask questions when Sherlock dragged John from the room and locked the two of them in her office. She politely turned up her iPod and pretended not to hear the moans and thumps from behind her vibrating office door. John could hardly look at her when they came out.

          In the men’s room at NSY, for God’s sake, after leaving Lestrade’s office. It was a miracle they hadn’t gotten arrested.

          John tried to escape for a little alone time—and to give his balls a chance to rest, as he was pretty sure he was bone dry—and took the Tube, three cabs and a very circuitous walking route to an anonymous pub. His phone he had left at home, so he couldn’t be tracked. He looked up from his pint and there was Sherlock, looking smug. “How in the hell did you find me?” John demanded incredulously.

          Sherlock, it seemed, was not above using his brother’s excellent spy capabilities to track John down. They had a fight, made up and ended up in the alley, drunkenly pawing one another. John, it seemed, wasn’t quite tapped out.

          “I can’t keep doing this,” he protested breathlessly, licking Sherlock’s sweaty chest. “I’m in my forties for God’s sake.” He tucked himself back in his trousers, “You’re obsessed, Sherlock, and you’re taking me down with you.”

          “This is better than heroin,” Sherlock informed him far too cheerfully, “And I seem to recall that _you_ pulled me out here.”

          “That’s because I’m a sick, sick man,” John said and took him home.

          And then suddenly, Sherlock wasn’t always around. John came home from work and was unmolested. He ventured to bathe and was not attacked by a naked and aroused consulting detective. Instead of being ambushed while on the phone, he was able to carry on an entire conversation. They went to the morgue and nothing untoward happened. They passed numerous public toilets without locking themselves inside. It was…disturbing. It was unsettling. It was annoying as hell.

          John finally had enough. He marched down to Mrs. Hudson’s, plunked Rosie in her arms, suggested tersely that they go to the park and banged into the flat, ripping his clothes off as he went. Sherlock was in his room, indexing his socks and he actually jumped when John flung his door open.

          “John,” Sherlock gazed in surprise at his friend, who was standing in the doorway, nude, erect and scowling. “What’s wrong?’

          “You tell me,” John yelled, “You’re all over me, sex here, sex there, everywhere a—no, that’s not right, that’s Old MacDonald. What gives?”

          “I was giving you space,” Sherlock said innocently, “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

          “We haven’t done it in over a week,” John growled, advancing across the room toward the younger man. His cock preceded him through the room like a broadsword in the hands of an angry Viking. “Every time I come in the room, you go out the other door.”

          “You wanted to be left alone,” Sherlock tried to pry his eyes away from the sight coming at him but every time he tried to look away his gaze got caught on that most excellent erection. He licked his lips, “I’m granting that wish.” He moaned a little when John crowded him up against the dresser.

          “You’re being a cock tease,” John accused, and flicked open Sherlock’s shirt buttons, batting his hands away when he tried to stop him. “This is revenge for me saying I needed a break.”

          “I was giving you a break,” Sherlock protested weakly, but he didn’t sound very believable, especially given that he had accommodatingly unzipped his trousers and was trying to lower his pants with one hand while he flicked John’s nipples with the other. “Just as you wanted…”

          “Stop that,” John smacked his hand and Sherlock’s eyes widened. John flicked him a glance to make sure he wasn’t really scared and grinned at the lascivious look on his lover’s face. Divesting him of his clothes he nudged his feet apart with his own and instructed him to put his hands behind him. Crowding too close he rubbed his prick against Sherlock’s until he dragged a moan from him.

          “You’re no more done with me than I am with you,” John gasped, gripping the back of his neck and kissing him, their mouths clashing. “You can play all the games you want but I’ll find you.”

          The gleam in Sherlock’s eyes should have warned him, but all of the sudden he was gone, bounding out of the room. “Catch me if you can, John!”

          Thank God for all the running after criminals they did; John dashed after him, leapt over the couch and barely avoided the table. Sherlock darted through the kitchen, cackling, and bounded up the stairs. John put on speed and caught up with him, managing to take them both down. No doubt on the following day they would have some bruises, but just now neither of them noticed.

          “Come here,” John said, and grappled with him, but the younger man was slippery as an eel. He managed to gain a few inches and tried to pull himself up the steps but John threw his arms around his thighs and bit him on the bum.

          “Ow!” Sherlock shouted and kicked like a mule, momentarily stunning John, who howled and rubbed his thigh with one hand. With the other he reached out quick as a snake and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s half-hard willy.

          “Gotcha,” John chuckled darkly, and popped up between Sherlock’s thighs, mouthing his way up his thigh, fingers everywhere.

          “That tickles,” Sherlock wailed, and shook with laughter. John tipped him over on his back and blew a raspberry on his flat stomach. “Stooooop, John!” He yelped and giggled, flailing his long limbs. Abruptly he changed tactics and wound his arms and legs around John, trapping him in his embrace.

          John wiggled hard but was unable to budge. “Sherlock, stop it, this isn’t funny.” He tried hard to break Sherlock’s strangle hold, “I’ve got PTSD.”

          “Oh but it is!” He stuck his tongue in John’s ear, bit his earlobe. Changing sides he stuck his nose in the crook of John’s neck and proceeded to tickle him. John yelped and twisted but couldn’t get out of those entangling limbs. Octopus indeed; oooh, there was a particularly persistent tentacle…

          “Ah, Christ, Sherlock, my hip, Jesus let me up!” His voice was soaked in panic. Sherlock released him, and sat up, hands patting everywhere. “John, John I’m sorry. Are you—“

          “Gotcha!” John cackled, and slapped him on the arse and went downstairs, aware that his bare bum was drawing Sherlock’s eyes. Less than a minute later they were in Sherlock’s bed and the younger man admitted that John was a much sneakier and meaner fighter than he expected. “Too right,” John gloated, kissing his way down Sherlock’s long body, “but nice try.”

          “Sorry about the noise,” John apologized several hours later when he went to fetch Rosie from Mrs. Hudson, “We had to settle a disagreement.”

          “I hope you told him who was boss,” Mrs. Hudson twinkled, eying the beard burn on John’s neck.

          “It’s an ongoing struggle,” John blushed.

          Their stand off and John’s ambush didn’t really seem to settle matters. John was willing to admit that he needed Sherlock as much as Sherlock needed him, but the younger man refused to admit that there were appropriate times and places to try and take John’s trousers down and satisfy his needs.

          “I said not at the Yard, for God’s sake,” John hissed, nearly breaking Sherlock’s fingers when he snuck up behind him in Lestrade’s office and grabbed his arse. He looked around, “Somebody’s going to see, for—Sherlock, stop!”

          “You were so forceful with Donovan,” Sherlock said, breathing heavily, “I want you now.”

          “Stop it or I’m asking Greg for his hand cuffs—“

          Sherlock’s eyes went black and the next minute he had closed the door and was leaning John over Lestrade’s desk. John protested feebly, especially when one of those elegant hands worked its way into his pants. “This is a bad idea,” he panted, raising his hips.

          “You shouldn’t have mentioned hand cuffs,” Sherlock purred, rocking against him.

          “Sherlock, I’ve got the—bloody hell you two!” Lestrade slammed the door shut. Unfortunately he was in the room with them. “Listen, you sex fiends, I’ve turned a blind eye to you two rogering in every loo in the goddamned building—and don’t think I don’t know what you were doing on that rooftop during our last stake out. But this is too much! This is my office! That is my desk…go bugger somewhere else.”

          “Sorry, Greg,” John apologized, sliding off the desk and trying to put himself back in his trousers—no mean feat given the wood he was sporting could have been mistaken for a California redwood. Lestrade gave him a bit of a fond glance but politely looked away. Sherlock, who was still fully dressed, looked between them and narrowed his eyes, “What is the meaning of that longing glance, Graham?”

          “What?” John and Lestrade both tried to look innocent. Unfortunately they just looked wildly guilty and untrustworthy.

          “You—you’ve …not with Lestrade!” Sherlock looked a bit wild, “But I, I thought you—you’re not gay.”

          It wasn’t clear whom he was addressing, but John answered, “Erm, well, you know sometimes it’s just…well, sex you know, occasionally things come up…”

          “It was there,” Greg supplied helpfully. “I’m not gay, but c’mon, a ten inch dick comes along once in a man’s lifetime.” Sherlock didn’t look appeased. “It’s like getting a chance to climb Everest…you do it because it’s there.”

          “With Lestrade!” Sherlock hissed, and swooped out of the room. John and Greg watched him go.

          “That’s me in trouble,” John sighed. He adjusted himself, “Guess I’m cut off.”

          “He’ll come round,” Greg said, sitting down at his desk. He looked at the crumpled files and scowled, “Jesus you two are animals.”

          “It’s an addiction,” John sighed.

          Greg shook his head and watched the other man go. It was ridiculous, how much power he wielded with that wizard’s staff he carried around in his pants. Thinking on it made him a bit warm and he was glad no one could read his mind. _Just the one time_ , he reminded himself. _That’s all it was_.

          He dismissed the matter from his mind and went back to work. It was hours later before he thought to leave—since his divorce he’d been spending more and more late nights at the Yard. Standing to stretch Greg realized everyone else was long gone except for a few of the third shift. Time to call it a night, he decided, shutting down his computer.

          Sherlock didn’t make a sound when he appeared in the doorway, and Greg nearly screamed in fright when he turned around and saw his dark figure lurking. “Jesus, Sherlock, it’s one in the morning! What are you doing lurking there?”

          “We have to have sex.” Sherlock had his arms folded over his chest, a grim look on his face.

          “Uh, no we don’t.” Greg peered at him, “Are you high?”

          A roll of his eyes, “No,” he huffed, “I haven’t partaken—I assumed you would not agree if I were under the influence.”

          Greg shook his head and put on his coat, “I’m not agreeing either way, princess. Go home, Sherlock, bother John.”

          “I can’t,” Sherlock hissed, “I know that he’s been with you and I have to even the score.”

          Greg threw his hands in the air, “What score? It was years ago, it happened once and you two weren’t together.”

          “But—“

          “No buts, I’m not doing it and it’s madness anyway. What’s the point, Sherlock? John’s been with loads of people before you, are you going to track them all down and try to bully them into sleeping with you?”

          “Well, I…” Sherlock scowled, “John is…”

          “All yours,” Greg suggested. Sherlock looked at him in surprise. “That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it? Well stop worrying. He’s mad for you. Even before you two were doing it all over London, you were all he could talk about.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder, “That man has the Disney World of penises, and you’re the only he’s letting take rides.”

          “Oh.”

          Greg pushed him gently out of the office and locked the door, guided him down the hall. Escorting him out of the building he commanded, “Go home to your boyfriend.”

          “He’s not my—“

          “We both know that’s not true, now don’t we?” Greg unlocked his car, but waited, watching Sherlock, who was gnawing on his lip and looking younger and more, well, helpless, than he had ever seen him. “Sherlock,” he gentled his voice, and when the other man looked at him he smiled as nicely as he knew how, “He’s your man, go get him.”

          Happy with himself for his good deed, Greg drove home to his lonely house and rewarded himself with a stiff whiskey and a porn; what the hell, all this talk of sex had gotten to him.

          Across town Molly let herself into her flat and called out to Toby, “I’m home!” Sighing at the silence, she toed off her shoes and made her way to the kitchen, “That had to be the world’s worst date, Toby, I think I’m giving up on men. I’ll adopt you a few more brothers and sisters and just accept my old maid status.”

          “You’re already well on your way if you’re talking to your cat.”

          Molly screamed and swung her handbag, narrowly avoiding Sherlock’s head. “Jesus Christ,” she shrieked, her hand over her heart, “Are you trying to scare me to death?”

          He winced, “Lower your voice, Molly, the neighbors aren’t used to yelling from your flat, they’re liable to think you’re being murdered.”

          “I ought to murder _you_ …why did you let yourself in and then lurk in the dark and spring out on me like that?”

          “I didn’t want to alarm you,” Sherlock smiled a bit and Molly rolled her eyes and pushed past him to put the kettle on.

          “You’re supposed to ask before you come over, remember?” Molly sat on one of the barstools and hoped this wasn’t going to be one of _those_ nights. She really wanted a shower and then wine, ice cream and a shirtless Colin Firth in _Pride and Prejudice_ to take her mind off of her dreadful date and her depressing personal life. “It was part of the agreement.”

          “You didn’t answer your phone.”

          It was true, she hadn’t; determined not to let yet another potential relationship be ruined by Sherlock Holmes, Molly had ignored his call. With her terrible luck she had picked the wrong man. “Sorry, I was busy.”

          “Busy being bored and disappointed,” Sherlock said.

          “Well, at the time I thought he had promise.”

          “Why don’t you just ask out Lestrade?” Sherlock observed her hot blush with interest. “I thought so. You no longer put lipstick on for me, but every time he shows up in your morgue you pop out and come back with unnaturally colored lips.”

          “I don’t—“ Molly gave it up, “Alright, I do. But that’s…he— Greg doesn’t—“

          “Sentences, Molly, use them.”

          “He doesn’t think of me like that.” Molly slumped sadly on her stool, “The last time I saw him he clapped me on the back and called me _kid_.”

          “He’s not used to thinking of you like that,” Sherlock observed, “Take me, I didn’t think of John sexually until he took his trousers off in front of me.”

          Molly’s eyes were round and disbelieving, “You want me to take my clothes off in front of Greg?”

          “Well it would be expedient—“ Sherlock cut himself off mid-sentence. “Of course! John and I did not used to regard one another sexually! He wasn’t cheating on me with Lestrade, it was just—ah, I’m a fool!” He dashed out of the room, leaving a bewildered Molly trailing after him.

          “John slept with Greg? Sherlock, Sherlock! Where are you going?”

          “I came to you for advice but I have solved my own problem!” Sherlock beamed at her, “And yours. Show up at Greg’s and take off your knickers.” He kissed her cheek, “I have to go!”

          “Take off my knickers,” Molly echoed, and closed the door. She had a vision of showing up at Greg’s flat, knickerless, and throwing herself at him. It was a momentarily delicious vision until she pictured him gently letting her down. He might even call her kid again. Nope.

          John had given up on Sherlock and gone to bed at midnight, aware that the madman was fully capable of disappearing for hours. Not long after he had gone to bed he was woken by the light from the hallway spilling across his bed as his door opened. Nerves on high alert he relaxed when he recognized that lanky silhouette, those distinctive curls framed by the open coat collar. “Sherlock.”

          “May I come in?”

          “You’re bothering to ask?”

          Sherlock was exquisitely polite, “You might be annoyed with me—“

          “I’m always annoyed with you,” John pointed out, turning on his lamp and sitting up. He gave him a half-smile, “Doesn’t stop you from invading my space all the time. Space Invader, that’s you.”

          Sherlock fidgeted, “John I, erm—“

          “C’mere,” John patted the bed, sighed when Sherlock stayed stubbornly in the doorway. “Sherlock…”

          His narrow arse hovered over the end of the bed but before he could sit John had grabbed his sleeve and tugged, pulling him closer and Sherlock tumbled awkwardly into his arms. John crawled to meet him and pinned him lightly to the bed. “Are you done running?”

          “I—“

          “Ready to talk?”

          “John—“

          “Over your strop?’

          “You—“

          John grinned at his annoyed tone, his pissy expression, “Frustrating when you want to talk and someone ignores you, isn’t it?” He dropped his face closer to the other man’s and Sherlock’s breathing sped up. John rubbed his nose over Sherlock’s and smiled into his eyes, “I wanted to talk to you but you disappeared and wouldn’t answer my calls. I was frustrated and worried.”

          Sherlock actually looked apologetic, “John, I-I’m sorry.”

          John kissed him, “Thank you. Don’t run away again, eh? I worry about you when I don’t know where you are.”

          Sherlock actually looked surprised, and John kissed him again, then more deeply, “I forgot for a bit that relationships aren’t your thing.” He rolled on his back and pulled the other man over him, holding him tight. “That’s what this is, a relationship, you and me—just the two of us.”

          “That’s what Lestrade said,” Sherlock informed him hesitantly, “He said your penis is Disney World and I’m the only one allowed on the rides.”

          John hooted, “Did he? I’m surprised he was so…whatever that is.”

          “He called you my boyfriend.”

          John slapped Sherlock’s bum, “Too right.” He pulled back, “Joking aside, you’re mine, aren’t you?” His thundering heart would have given him away if Sherlock’s hadn’t been beating just as ferociously.

          “The notion of possessing another person is both archaic and—“ Sherlock stopped, looked at John, “I refuse to be called your boyfriend, it’s juvenile.”

          “You’re mine,” John told him, and was surprised by Sherlock’s kiss, when they parted he looked a bit dazed and Sherlock was smug, “And you’re mine, John.”

          _Always have been_ , John thought, but wasn’t such a fool as to say it out loud. Sherlock Holmes was impossible enough without ammunition of that sort. He set about distracting him with sex, before the younger man could read his thoughts, and fifteen minutes later Sherlock was riding the Matterhorn.


End file.
